Chapter 6 Aurora
AURORA
The rusted iron grate shrieks.
The sound is a metal scream in the crushing, subterranean dark, so loud I’m sure Krell and his mercenaries must have heard it. My heart tries to leap out of my chest, but Othic—The Tusk—doesn't seem to care. He puts his massive, scarred shoulder to the grate and shoves.
It bursts open with a spray of rust and foul, cold water, dumping us out of the sewer and into a different kind of darkness.
I gag, stumbling out onto slick, muddy cobblestones, my hands flying to my mouth.
The smell hits me like a physical blow. It’s not the cloying, sweet perfume of Privis’s estate or the acrid tang of blood.
This is the real Eelry. It’s the smell of a thousand unwashed bodies crammed together, of rotting fish from the nearby port, of rodan meat frying in rancid oil, and beneath it all, the sour, briny stench of the black canals that pass for streets.
I lived above this. For three years, I scrubbed Privis's marble floors, and this... this was just beneath my feet.
"This way," Othic grunts. His voice is low, but it cuts through the din of the Lowtown.
I leap to my feet, clinging to the back of his leather tunic.
The alley is a narrow crack between two towering, rickety tenements that lean against each other, blocking out the sky.
A thin, sickly yellow light spills from a few windows, illuminating a world of filth.
A zagfer elf, his face thin and gaunt, sees us emerge from the sewer and flattens himself against a wall, his eyes wide.
Othic is the only solid thing in this world of shadows and rot. He is a walking mountain of impossibility, and I am tied to his wrist by an invisible thread. He pulls me into the main thoroughfare, a street that's more of a churning river of mud, and my terror finds a new, deeper level.
This isn't just a slum. It’s a nation of the forgotten. The street is a churning river of bodies—human laborers, pale zagferelves with hollow cheeks, and even a few hulking, off-duty Minotaur mercenaries outside a grog-shop. They all have the same dead, hopeless eyes.
But the moment they see Othic, that deadness vanishes. It’s replaced by pure, undiluted terror.
A human woman pulling a cart loaded with scraps sees his massive, gray-green form, sees the bloody axe on his back, and she yanks her child into a doorway, shielding him with her body.
The zagfer elf from the alley has already vanished.
The entire street parts for us, a wave of fear rippling away from his heavy, confident steps.
My stomach churns. I look up at the massive, scarred warrior I am clinging to. This is "The Tusk."
I realize with a cold, sickening lurch: he's not just Privis's monster.
He's Eelry's monster. This is his territory.
These people see him and they don't see a protector.
They see the butcher who just returned from the Dareksword estate.
They see the creature who keeps their real master, Privis, safe and powerful.
He is the boogeyman, and I am walking in his shadow.
A new spike of fear hits me, sharp and confusing. Is he really saving me? Or has he just... stolen me? Am I just his newprize, taken from his master's hoard?
He doesn't seem to notice my hesitation. His head is on a constant, slow swivel, his amber eyes scanning rooftops, alleyways, his entire body a coiled spring. He ignores the panicked stares and pulls me deeper into the maze. "Keep your head down," he rumbles. "Don't look at anyone."
The alarm horn from Privis's estate is a faint, baying cry in the distance, almost lost beneath the closer sounds of shouting and a tinny, out-of-tune jinrayaha playing from a tavern.
Othic shoves me suddenly, hard, into the black shadow of a collapsed wall, pressing his own body in front of me as a shield.
"Stay," he hisses.
I press my back against the cold, slimy brick, my breath held tight in my chest. The alley smells of piss and stale wine. From a grimy, torch-lit window just above our heads, I hear voices—drunk, slurred zagfer elves.
"Heard the news from Noble Hill?" one voice, thick with zhisk, slurs. "Lord Privis's high-born wife took a 'slip.' Right in the bathhouse."
"Slipped?" A second voice snorts, followed by a wet cackle. "Hah! Slipped on a bar of 'my-husband-is-a-murdering-worm' soap, more like. It's about time. He's been wanting to get his hands on that little human 'Doll' of his for months."
My blood turns icy in my veins. My hands fly to my mouth, muffling a gasp. They're talking about... me?
The first voice laughs. "Aye. Heard he's already moved her into his bed. Lucky bitch. Bet she's sleeping on silks right now, instead of scrubbing them."
They think I'm... with him? Willingly?
The cold, slimy brick at my back is the only thing holding me upright. The world narrows to the sound of those two drunken voices, casually dissecting my life, my death.
"Lucky?" the second voice rasps, his amusement fading. "She's dead. She just hasn't stopped breathing yet. You think he'll let her live? After what he did to Lamas just to get her?"
My vision tunnels. He... he killed Lamas... for...
"It's a bad time to be on that bastard's list," the first voice agrees, his tone suddenly sober. "First Dareksword, now Lamas. He's cleaning house. Wiping the slate clean."
Dareksword? The name hits me like a physical slap. The raid. The Tusk... my Tusk... he returned from that raid just this afternoon. I cleaned Dareksword's blood off the marble myself.
He killed Dareksword. Privis killed Lamas.
And I... I am the reason.
The taura stew I ate this morning boils in my stomach. I'm not just a servant he coveted. I'm the prize that started a war. I am the excuse for murder. The guilt is suffocating, a physical hand squeezing my throat. I'm going to be sick, right here in the filth.
I feel Othic's hand on my shoulder, his grip impossibly heavy, forcing me to stay still. He's heard it too. He's listening, his whole body tense as a drawn bowstring.
A sharp, crisp whistle cuts through the slum's chaotic din. It’s not a military call; it’s a mercenary's. It echoes from two streets over.
Othic's hand tightens on my shoulder, his grip almost painful. He goes from tense to lethal in a heartbeat.
Another whistle answers, this one from the west. They're coordinating. They're sweeping the Lowtown.
"Mercenaries," Othic's voice is a low, lethal growl in my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "Krell's men. They know these streets."
They're here. Already. He didn't just break his contract; he fought his own crew. He left them broken. The whispers I heard in the servant's hall... it wasn't just a rumor.
He's going to die. He's going to die down here in this filth, protecting me. The woman who is the cause of all this. The guilt and the terror twist together, a cold, sharp blade in my gut.
He's going to die for me.
Othic doesn't hesitate. He shoves me, not back toward the main street, but into a narrow, black gap between two leaning shacks—a space barely wide enough for a suru, let alone an orc. It stinks of garbage and something dead.
"Move," he commands. "Now. Don't stop. And do not make a sound."